


Monsters Running Wild (Inside Of Me)

by geckoholic



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mating Bond, Omega Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-06 10:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15192410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: Keith finds a wounded wolf in the woods. The events following that discovery might just change his life forever.





	1. SAVE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xyriath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/gifts).



> Soooooo this was supposed to be written as a pinch hit for Sheith Secret Santa, way back in, uh. January? Yes. Well. That obviously didn't happen, for reasons I won't bore anyone with here. Anyway. A few months and countless wrestling matches with this stupid, stubborn piece of writing later, here we are. It's fully written and I'm aiming to post the remaining two chapters next week and the week after. 
> 
> Beta-read by beta-lactamase, stevierarebarnes, airdanteine, and winnie. Thanks to all of you!! ♥ And also to amorremanet, who brainstormed this with me on several occasions. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Faded" by Alan Walker.

Frightful things happen in the woods at night.

It’s one of the first things the local children are taught, and it's what produced surprised gasps, when Keith was little, whenever he answered the question of where he lived with _a cottage in the forest_. Back then he hated it. But then he was sent to the orphanage – alone, his dad gone – and that made the dingy forest cottage look like a mansion in comparison. Answering that very same question with _the orphanage_ didn't yield much better responses either. Instead of his classmates' horrified disbelief, Keith endured their pity. 

That was a long time ago and now Keith is an adult. He's gone back to living in said cottage and he no longer has a lot of opportunities for people to ask him any questions at all. He avoids them, for the most part. He times his rare grocery runs so that he'll avoid the crowds – late at night or early in the morning – and he doesn't have many other reasons to go into town. His dad was a hunter. Keith knows how to take care of himself out here and he doesn't have to shoot much game to get by.

Up early today, awake while the moon is still reigning in the sky, he's wandered out towards the clearing in order to collect herbs. There's a field of wild garlic underneath a large oak that gives a nice flavor to his herbal broths and he doesn't have to be as careful here about poisonous weeds. The sun is just about to come up when he reached the clearing – that gate between night and day when it's not really light out, but also not entirely dark anymore – and Keith takes a moment to stare out over the treeline, watch the rays of daylight dance between the branches as the forest wakes up around him. 

A noise to his left pulls him roughly out of his reverie: a half growl, half whine, and Keith's hunter's instincts take over immediately. Something large, possibly carnivorous, and therefore a potential threat. He squats behind a bush and reaches for the knife strapped to his thigh, then scans the clearing to find the source of the noise.

It becomes obvious rather quickly; kind of difficult not to notice the large, fur-covered body lying by the edge of the clearing. It’s a wolf, and a rather large one too. The beast's eyes are open, watching Keith with the same stunned wariness that Keith shows looking back at it, and its chest is heaving in an erratic rhythm. Blood glistens off its fur in the dim light, coloring the dark brown on its flank an ever deeper shade and staining the white stripe of hair between its ears a bright red.

Keith lets his hand drop from the knife's hilt. He rises from his hideout slowly, both arms raised in front of him as he approaches the wounded animal. It gives another whine-growl when he closes in, and Keith shushes it, starting to talk in a low and soothing voice. “I won't hurt you, I promise. I want to help you.”

It’s a stupid idea and Keith is well aware of it – the wolf could rip out his throat in a single bite – but Keith can't just let it die out here. He might come to regret it, but he can't _not_ help. He sheds his jacket and kneels down to push it underneath the wolf's body, the animal seeming to understand his intent. It bares its teeth but doesn't try to snap at him. He manages to secure the jacket around it, and it's slow work to drag it back to the cottage that way, but he manages.

Once there, Keith leaves the wolf out in the garden, both to give it another chance to make a run for it should it be capable of that, and to brace himself for the feat of heaving however many pounds of wounded predator onto his front porch. He clears a space in the main room, makes it hospitable with a few old blankets on a bed of straw, and then walks back out.

The sun is rising behind the treeline now, bathing the forest in glowing orange light, and the wolf is, indeed, gone. In its place lies a man, not much older than Keith from the looks of it, bare-ass naked, covered in blood much as the wolf was. He's still panting heavily, the irregular rhythm of his breathing a dead giveaway for the severity of his injuries. He's also unconscious, curled in on himself on top of Keith's jacket.

Keith sighs and runs a hand down his face. It looks like at least one of the urban legends about these woods isn't entirely bogus. He feels like maybe that should come as slightly more of a shock, but hey, Keith has better things to do than freak out. Making sure the naked stranger bleeding all over his now former favorite jacket doesn't die, for example.

 

***

 

It’s nearly midday by the time the stranger wakes on the makeshift bed, adjusting to its now human occupant with a small pillow and another blanket on top. Keith uses the time to disinfect, patch up and dress his wounds; make fresh broth and tidy up a bit. He settles against the headboard of his own bed, nibbling on a cheese sandwich, when the stranger stirs.

He blinks his eyes open and looks around until his gaze lands on Keith. His gray eyes widen and he props himself up on his elbows with a pained groan. Keith puts his sandwich back on the plate and makes to stand, to keep the man from getting up. “You’re going to rip your stitches,” he admonishes. “Lay back down.”

The stranger eyes him warily, but he freezes and glances down at his own bandaged body. He’s clad in the largest sweatpants and t-shirt Keith could find amongst his clothes – which honestly wasn’t big enough – and he lowers himself back onto the bed. Good. He’s got some common sense, then.

“What’s your name?” the stranger asks, scratching idly at the white fringe that stands out from his long, otherwise dark brown hair,damp and tangled because Keith deemed it necessary to wash it, but decided combing could wait until its owner regained consciousness.

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? And, while we’re at it, what _are_ you?”

“You can call me Shiro. Everyone does,” the stranger says, and Keith can hardly believe it, but the man smiles. He does so in a slightly sheepish way that manages to make him look years younger and almost innocent, despite the glaring fact that he can _transform into a wild apex predator_. “ As for your second question, would you believe me if I told you that a tribe of werewolves settled in this area about a hundred years ago and I’m one of its descendants?”

“Well,” says Keith, shrugging his shoulders. “After this morning, yes, I can absolutely believe that.” He smiles back, a little, because it’s near impossible not to; the expression is contagious. “And, hi. I’m Keith.”

He stomps down on the urge to hold out his hand with the greeting, lest he look like an awkward weirdo, and instead stands to march into the bathroom and retrieve his hairbrush. Shiro's gaze tracks him all the way and he cocks his head when Keith comes back into view. Keith holds the brush up and waves it. “Your hair. It'd be a shame to leave it tangled.”

Shiro smiles at him some more – how he does that while lying down with multiple deep cuts and likely in a considerable amount of pain is beyond Keith – and slowly works himself up on his elbows again, cocking his head in expectation. The gesture has Keith confused for a second, then makes him swallow. Oh. Yes. There's a particularly nasty wound on Shiro's torso, and raising his arms to brush his hair would aggravate that. Looks like he assumed Keith was offering to do it for him.

And because it's impossible to say no to that smile, that open and trusting look on Shiro's face, Keith steels himself, breathes in and out, and carefully sits down by Shiro's shoulders. He can't quite bring himself to slide in behind him. The position would be too intimate. Sitting like this he has to turn a bit, and it's not the easiest position to hold for long, but it saves his dignity so that's a sacrifice he's prepared to make.

He works his way through the first few strands in silence, parting them with his fingers first and then brushing out the knots with great care. He wrecks his brain to come up with some harmless, polite smalltalk, but that's a skill he hasn't practiced in some time so what actually comes out is, “What happened to you?”

Shiro tenses, his entire body going rigid at the question. “Got hit by a car,” he says, voice lacking all inflection. “Last night, on the way home from a friend's house. I turned from the shock and pain and wandered around the woods in wolf form until I passed out before sunrise. You know the rest.”

Having spent all morning up close and personal with Shiro's wounds, Keith is quite certain that they're not the kind one gets in a car accident, especially not getting _hit_ by a car. They look like stab wounds, like he's been attacked, or been in a knife fight. Keith doesn't call him out on the lie, though; they're not friends. They met mere hours ago. Shiro didn't ask Keith to take him in, and he doesn't owe Keith anything. If that's the story he wants to serve, then so be it.

Keith parts the next strand of long, dark, silky hair and works the brush through it in silence.

 

***

 

Shiro sleeps a lot during the first few days, fitful and in intervals of maybe an hour or two at a time. When he's awake, Keith seizes the opportunity to change the dressing on his wounds or coax some herbal broth and plain bread into him. Necessity dictates their encounters, and chases away any chance for awkwardness. There are a few things that Keith learns quickly, however. One of them is that Shiro is extremely good at hiding pain, masking fear and anguish, and playing pretend. He finds that out because none of these barriers hold up during the night, and Keith is woken up by quiet whimpering from the other side of the room before the moon has even risen high enough to mark this midnight.

The contrast is startling. From his behavior during the day, Shiro could have been mistaken for a casual visitor, having been through nothing worse than losing his way in the woods, his wounds on par with a bit of a scratch. Now, once Keith has said his name enough times to rouse him from sleep, his eyes are wild and panicked. His face is scrunched up in pain and he's got one hand pressed to his side, where the worst cluster of injuries is covered by layers of gauze.

“Shiro,” he says again, softer, now that he's managed to pull him out of his dreams.

Finally Shiro's gaze swings around to meet his eyes, and it seems like he's _seeing_ him for the first time. Recognizing him, recognizing his surroundings, remembering what happened, where he is. “Did I wake you?” he asks, and scrubs a hand down his face. “I'm sorry.”

“Does it hurt?” Keith asks, and he means to offer painkillers, or to go out in the clearing and find some of those herbs that have a numbing effect when ground into a paste, but something in the way Shiro looks away and swallows hard, tells him Shiro doesn't want relief. And it's not Keith's place to question that either; to inquire whether this is penance, or self-flagellation, and what might be the reason. Instead Keith changes tack, and finishes the question with, “When you change?”

Shiro frowns, but he looks at Keith again. Stares at him, really, like he's trying to read him in the dark. “Yeah. Yeah, it hurts. The transition is brutal, tearing and shifting skin, bones that break and get mended together differently. It's the opposite of fun.”

“Do you change every full moon?” Keith asks next, more to keep the conversation going than out of real interest. He's still feeling his way through the concept of _werewolves_ and not yet at the stage where he wants to know everything, curiosity outclassed for now by disbelief and awe.

“No,” Shiro answers dutifully. “I was born a werewolf and taught how to control it. Those that get bitten later in life aren't so lucky. They're out there every month, but I can count the times I wolfed out as an adult on one hand.”

Keith remembers the rumors from when he was young; the tense mood in town around a full moon, the curfew in the orphanage just for those days. But all of that seems like forgotten history, part of a childhood long since outgrown. Not only by him, but by the world at large. “How many of you are there?”

“Less than there used to be,” Shiro says with a sad smile. “And those that are left, like me, try to keep a low profile.”

A faded memory pokes at Keith's mind: newspaper headlines that boast about the wolf problem being solved, hunters posing with their prey. He feels a sting in his heart at the idea that those weren't wild beasts, instead creatures that had either gone rabid or simply had the misfortune to extend their territory too far into town. That those might have been human beings; people with jobs and families and normal lives, as long as the moon didn't drag them out and turn them into something else, something different, something feral.

He can't come up with another question after that, can't keep feigning curiosity, yet again Keith feels like he asked the wrong thing. Always the wrong thing. He keeps watching the moon long after Shiro drifted back to sleep, to make sure he doesn't slide into another nightmare, isn't in too much obvious pain, and only falls back asleep himself when the birds outside begin their songs to greet a new day.

 

***

 

Keith blinks awake to the bright midday sun shining into the cabin. He yawns wide, stretching out on the mattress. He's an early riser, usually, but it's not the first time he'd stayed up late for whatever reason and slept in. It's not like there's anyone around to tell him he shouldn't.

That thought leads to another, and Keith belatedly realizes that he's alone in the room and how that's... _wrong_. Someone else is supposed to be here. He glances towards the straw bed and the blankets and finds it vacated. He rubs his eyes and stands up, calling out Shiro's name.

The answer comes immediately, from the direction of the bathroom if Keith had to guess, and he pushes the air out between his teeth, flooded with more relief than might be strictly justifiable. The idea that Shiro left... he's not going to think about why that made his heart sink just now.

“Need any help?” Keith asks, and blushes hotly just as soon as the words left his lips. That was dumb. Help with what – peeing, a shower? Neither is really the kind of thing anyone would want help with from a virtual stranger.

Anyone but Shiro, it seems, because Keith hears him chuckle bashfully from the bathroom. “Uhm, since you're asking... can you come in here real quick?”

“Sure,” Keith agrees. He hurries over to the bathroom and pushes the door open, and... oh dear.

Shiro sits on the ground, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other folded underneath himself. He's got his hair wet and up in a loose ponytail and his shirt off. It'd be a rather beautiful sight if it weren't for the fact that one of the bandages on his chest is soaked through with blood.

He smiles up at Keith with an expression to match the bashful tone of his voice. “I washed my hair and wanted to shave, but I might have overdone it, and... I think I passed out? Just for a moment? And now I can't get back up because I can't summon the energy to pull myself to my feet.”

Keith frowns at him. “What did I tell you about ripping your stitches?”

That's met with an even more embarrassed smile and a head tilt, both of which Keith absolutely _doesn't_ find cute. He sighs and wanders over to Shiro, crouches so he can wrap his arms around Shiro's torso, and together they manage to get him to his feet and back into the main room – onto Keith’s mattress this time, because Keith is not going to let him sleep on the straw bed any longer. They're both breathing hard by the end of it, Keith from exertion and Shiro, Keith suspects, from the pain. He points at the new blood stain on the bandages. “I'll have to change these and do the sutures again.”

“I know,” Shiro says, looking at his feet, and there's something in his posture, in his entire demeanor, that Keith can't stand seeing. There are issues at play here that he can’t even begin to understand. “Sorry. It won't – “

“No,” Keith cuts in, anger rising in him without asking for permission, born from a bout of protectiveness that he can't explain, but doesn't argue with either. “It won't happen again, because you're going to ask for my help when you need it, alright? I didn't drag you out of the woods and stitch you up just so you can go and brain yourself on my bathroom sink next time because you're too proud to admit you're hurting.”

Shiro quirks an eyebrow, looking a bit dumbfounded, but before Keith gets a chance to apologize for the harsh tone and do some back-paddling, Shiro gives a slow nod, lips quirking back up. “Okay. I promise.”

“Okay,” Keith parrots, nodding back decisively. “Stay where you are while I get my first aid kid. Then I'll bring you a razor and a mirror, and you can do your thing while I'll make us some breakfast.”

He doesn't wait for a reply before he heads back into the bathroom to do as he announced. It's easy enough to find the shaving kit, he uses that himself every couple days, but it takes some digging in the pantry to find the old box with the things his mother forgot when she left: a few old shirts, some cheap jewelry, a few books, and the hand-held mirror she used to do her makeup sitting cross-legged on the bed. It's one of the favorite memories he has of her, whether he was resting in her lap to snooze while she applied her lipstick and did her eyeliner or watching her from the doorway. He closes the lid of the box with a longing in his heart that still hasn't died, even after all these years. But, no. He won't think about that. Keith shakes his head to dislodge the mental image and stalks out of the pantry, determined. He's got better things to do than getting maudlin about a woman who walked out of his life on her own volition.

Back in the main room, Keith finds Shiro fast asleep, curled up above the covers. He bites his lip to keep from smiling – it shouldn't be possible for someone so large and buff to look so adorable – and leaves the mirror and the kit on the bedside table. He'll make pancakes, and leave some out for when Shiro wakes up.


	2. LOVE

The cabin doesn't have much by the way of entertainment. Sure, it's got power and Keith has a TV and a game console. Shiro had found Keith’s mother’s old mirror funny for a strange moment before using it to help him shave as Keith had intended. There’s a well-stocked bookshelf, but those are meant for solitary activities. Keith hasn't had visitors in... well, ever, and he spends most of his time outside in the woods or in his garden. His self-sufficiency comes with the price of loneliness.

It's not as much of a problem at first. Shiro heals fast, faster than an ordinary human would, but it still takes him a few days to recover enough to move without pain. Once he's on his feet, however, Keith is acutely reminded of just how small his abode is. They sleep in the same room. The only other rooms are the kitchen, the pantry, and the bathroom. Only one of the rooms has an actual door they can close and there's only so long before Keith – hilariously unused to another human being sharing his space – needs a little alone time.

“I'm gonna go collect herbs and berries,” he announces, to a Shiro who looks vaguely crestfallen, yet nods and smiles. It makes Keith feel a bit like he's kicking a puppy, which is stupid. They've spent nearly a week in close quarters. Keith will be gone for an hour, maybe two, and Shiro can stay right here. He's not throwing him out, for Pete’s sake.

He ignores the way Shiro's eyes follow him all the way to the door, and manages to resist a glance back. This is _ridiculous._

He wanders into the woods, equipped with a basket for his crop, and at first it's really nice. Keith has missed this. It's still early in the day so the air is slightly chilled. He uses the narrow paths through the woods, rarely used by anyone but him. It requires a bit of effort, and where it's overgrown he has to give his full attention so he doesn't trip over vines or branches. He's not quite out of breath when he reaches the clearing, yet he's feeling his body in ways he hasn't in days and he welcomes the slight physical exertion.

The enjoyment is short-lived.

Keith isn't sure what he's worried about, exactly, but it worms its way into the back of his head regardless. Yes, Shiro's been healing well, and quickly, but he's still not healed up enough that he couldn't accidentally rip his stitches open again if bad luck had it out for him. He doesn't even know where Keith stashes the first aid kit, and that's an oversight Keith ought to rectify as soon as possible.

A cluster of raspberry bushes at the edge of the clearing, tall as a man and twice as wide, sits full of ripe berries. A spattering of wild garlic has grown in near the old oak tree that's been split in the middle. That's only what he sees at first glance. Keith could easily spend an hour out here, harvesting and collecting, but he merely spends five minutes collecting a quick crop of the garlic and plucks a few handfuls of the raspberries from bushes before he stops, catches himself giving the vague direction of the cabin a longing glance, and decides it's time to go back. 

Just in case. 

Just to be safe. 

Just so he'll _know_ Shiro's okay. 

They don't have cellphones, and if they did, there wouldn't be reliable reception out here anyway. He's caring for an injured person, Keith tells himself, whether it's a werewolf with freakish healing powers or not, and it's normal to be worried. It's part of the responsibility, even, that he accepted when he took Shiro in.

Thus reassured, he doesn't even pretend he's not hurrying back as quickly as he can without breaking out into a run. _Normal._ This is normal.

He finds Shiro in the main room of the cabin, safe and uninjured from the looks of it, playing a racing game on Keith's console. Upon seeing Keith, he pauses and puts the controller away, and his face lights up with a relieved smile.

“You're back,” he observes. Even his tone is downright delighted.

Keith sets the basket down by the door and strides across the cabin. Without so much as a reply, he flops down next to Shiro on the bed. When Shiro shifts so Keith can settle against him while Shiro picks the controller up again, Keith follows the invitation without second thought. It's only then that the nervous voice in the back of Keith's head falls quiet.

 

***

 

Something changes between them after that, or maybe it slots into place. They get up at the same time in the morning, share the sink to brush their teeth. Keith makes breakfast and Shiro sits at the kitchen table, watching his every move in comfortable silence. Keith goes outside to water his garden and feed the chickens, and Shiro follows him as if that's the way they've always done it.

The chickens gurgle excitedly around him as Keith pours seeds into the feeder just as he does every day. He turns around to see Shiro smile at him, peering into the coop, and smiling back is as natural as breathing. Just yesterday he did this alone, as every day before that, and the thought doesn't feel right to him anymore. Shiro not being part of his part of his normal routine doesn't feel right; the very idea suddenly scares him. He thinks about Shiro not being around, and his chest seizes painfully.

That's when it occurs to Keith that none of this is normal.

He pushes past Shiro to climb out of the coop and in a few long strides he's on the front porch. He doesn't look back until he's sat down on the small bench made of untreated logs that, unlike Shiro, has indeed always been here, and is probably older than the two of them combined. He feels lost and confused and he looks up to meet Shiro's eyes. He finds that Shiro hasn't moved a muscle, still stands by the coop, the chickens running around him because he's a stranger and he stands between them and their food. One of them picks at his bare feet, and he yelps, sending Keith a look that seems indignant and helpless at the same time.

Keith literally has a wolf in his hen house, and it's the wolf who appears threatened. The thought makes the tension in his chest unwind a little, makes him giggle. He raises his hand to cover his mouth and stifle the sound, but Shiro must have already caught it, because his expression grows even more put off, leveling a glare at Keith, then at the chickens. He huffs and gently kicks out at them. It's enough to make them scatter, flapping their wings and clucking in outrage. Shiro climbs over the low fence of the keep and walks towards the porch, but raises an eyebrow and waits for a nod before he sits down with Keith on the wooden bench.

“You noticed it too, didn't you,” he says, a statement rather than a question, and he looks sheepish, for lack of a better word. He’s embarrassed, his expression colored with guilt and a hit of shame.

Keith gives him a slow nod. “Yeah. What is _it_? What's happening to me? To us?”

Shiro inhales sharply and rakes a hand down his face. “Did you know that werewolves are supposed to mate for life?”

“A week ago I didn't even know that werewolves are real,” Keith points out, huffing. “So no, I didn't know that.”

“It's gotten rare,” Shiro continues. “We're lucky if we find another wolf at all, so waiting for a bond to appear is a luxury. Most of us lead normal lives these days.We have relationships with humans, and our lines die out after a few generations. My parents weren't bonded, weren't mates, neither were my paternal grandparents. My maternal grandfather died young, so all I know about bond mates I got from forlorn stories my grandma told me when I was a kid.”

Keith cocks his head. He must have misunderstood, but... “You're saying wolves don't form bonds with humans. Then how could you and I – “

“Your mother,” Shiro explains. He says it quickly, like he hopes the words will hurt less that way. Keith stares at him, cringes despite himself, and Shiro breaks eye contact, lowers his gaze. “That mirror you gave me to shave. That was hers, right? I could smell her on it. Feel her. She was like me.” He looks up again, and now his expression is sympathetic, warm, regretful. “No one ever told you, did they?”

“So I'm a... “ Keith's voice breaks before he can get the word out. It's all too much: too many revelations, his world upended in too many ways. “That can't be right. I never turned. I had no idea.”

Shiro shakes his head and reaches for Keith's hand. Keith lets him, although it takes some self-restraint not to flinch or groan at the contact. It's so intense. Touching anyone else never felt like _this_ , and Keith's had a wild youth. He's been with quite a few other people. “You're not a werewolf, don't worry. But it seems there's enough wolf blood in you for a bond to take root.” Shiro blinks, lowers his gaze once more. “And I'm sorry.”

“Did you do it on purpose?” Keith asks, squeezing Shiro's hand when he tries to pull that away too. Shiro winces and doesn't try again, even though Keith's sure he'd have the strength to shake him off with no trouble at all should he so choose.

“That's not how this works,” Shiro says, words still uttered in the general direction of his feet, as far from having to look Keith in the eyes as possible. “I couldn't force a bond on anyone. And nothing's irreversible until we decide to seal it, either, so you can still walk away.”

And that won't do; Keith refuses to let him take the blame for something that happened to him, that's happening to them both now. “Look, the way I see it, this isn't that different from falling in love. No one's really got a choice there either. It's hormones and brain chemistry.”

The comparison might be lame, the best Keith can come up with on the fly, and Shiro practically radiates the need to argue further, keep the blame on his side. He sighs instead and finally, finally, looks back up. “Hormones and brain chemistry, huh? I found myself a hopeless romantic, it seems.”

His smile is tentative, fragile, but it's there, and Keith will count that as a win for now. “That's me,” he says, grinning back. “Your very own Shakespearean hero.”

 

***

 

This far out, the only thing that obstructs the view of the sky at night are the trees. Keith catches Shiro staring out the window a lot that night, stealing glances at the stars and the waning moon, and Keith can't quite decipher his expression. It's pensive, maybe a little rueful, maybe a little guilty.

They haven't talked much since that morning's revelation, each of them dealing with its fallout. Keith has been going through his family history, to what he remembers of his parents, his mother especially, and reexamined all of it in the light of his newly gained knowledge. It makes sense, he supposes. Why they lived out here, what made her leave, his father's reasons to stay even after she did. More than ever before he wonders whether she _left_ at all, if she's still alive, but that's a line of thought he's not ready to explore yet. The fact of the matter is she's gone. She's never coming back. And he's got more pressing concerns, namely the man who seems to think he's the personification of Keith's misfortune.

“I always thought I'd end up alone,” he starts, and smiles when Shiro slowly turns around to face him, confusion evident like it's been painted onto his forehead in neon colors. “Hell, I did end up alone, out here. And I never made much of an effort to find someone, after I decided to live here for the time being.”

Shiro looks at him with wide eyes. “I don't understand.”

If he were anyone else, Keith would tell him, yeah, of course not; no one understands. But this is a man who's likely had to hide a part of himself from everyone except those close family, all his life, and maybe he'd get it. Some of it, at least.

Keith shrugs, trying to offset the emotional topic with casual mannerisms. “I'm glad you're here. I like you, and trust me when I say there's not a great many people I've ever enjoyed being around. I think I could love you. And if that's the case, if we fall in love, I don't mind the bond.”

He really doesn't. And it might be stupid, it sounds like a huge commitment, deeper than marriage, something physical, influencing the very core of who they are. Keith knows that. Yet he isn't scared off by the idea. It feels right. Safe. _Sure._ Some part of him – long forgotten and primal and, as he now knows, inherited from his mother – might even crave it.

At last, Shiro seems to relax a little. He stares back at Keith, chuckling softly. “ _If_ we fall in love? Well. I'm kinda already there.”

It's Keith turn to give him an incredulous stare. That's... Keith likes him. He really, _really_ likes him. He's never been in love before, however, got nothing to measure his emotions against. He's too pragmatic to believe in love at first sight, always thought it'd be something that grows with time; then again, the two don't cancel each other out, and he also always thought that werewolves are nothing more than an urban legend.

“Come here,” he says, putting his hand on the mattress beside him, palm up, an invitation.

Shiro looks at him quizzically, but he obeys, shifts closer and covers Keith's proffered hand with his own. Keith nods, pleased, and leans in. The kiss is gentle and slow and shy, tasting each other for the first time. That's okay, though, because there's no need for urgency.

This is only the beginning – their beginning.

 

***

 

Despite the conversation, the assurance and the kiss, Shiro doesn't seem to fully relax. There's still a crease between his eyebrows that telegraphs his thoughts, his worrying. Keith lets him be; maybe all he needs is a little time. Or maybe Keith ought to reassure him more, come up with a plan to prove that he really doesn't mind, that he's ready to let this happen and see where it leads.

He looks up from his rows of carrots, too young to pull yet, but besieged by a battalion of weeds. He watches Shiro bask in the early afternoon sun on the green surrounding the garden. It rained the whole morning and the grass is still wet, but it appears he doesn't mind as he sits there on the ground, arms stretched out behind him to carry his weight and face angled towards the sky, eyes closed, humming to himself. They both arranged themselves with the blossoming bond, don't try to keep away from each other anymore. Where Keith goes, Shiro follows. He explained to Keith that the experience would shift and change if they went forward with the bond, that it'd be quieter, less intense, and Keith didn't ask what _going forward_ meant. Eventually, he will. He'll ask. He'll likely agree, whatever it takes, and they'll do it. They'll bond. He just needs some more time to process things first.

Keith rubs the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, dirt-covered as it is, and directs his attention back to separating the green of the carrots from the rampant growth of their invaders. He tries to concentrate on the tune Shiro's humming on repeat, but he doesn't recognize the melody. He does notice when he hum suddenly stops.

When he looks up, Shiro's staring at him, his gaze weighted. “There's something else I need to tell you.”

“Okay?” Keith replies, his voice rising at the end to turn that single word into a question.

Shiro frowns, and sighs, and sits up straight, folding his legs underneath himself. “I didn't have a car accident. That's not why I wolfed out in the first place.”

“I figured,” Keith says, and upon Shiro's confused expression, he explains his reasons. “I've seen your wounds, I tended to them. You weren't hit by a car. You were stabbed.”

Nostrils flaring as he pushes out a breath through gritted teeth, Shiro nods. His eyes flicker to the treeline and the village beyond. “It was a mugging. I went out late, grocery shopping, nothing more, and he jumped me in the parking lot of the apartment complex where I live. I wasn't going to fight him – I didn't have much of value on me, only a few more dollars – but I dropped my wallet and bent down for it on instinct, and he must have taken that as resistance. Thought I'd take a swing at him or something. He pulled out a knife, and the wolf took over the moment I saw it. I was still human when he came at me the first time, but he must have panicked completely when he saw me change, just blindly struck at me. I... I think I bit him. I don't know how badly, if he's even still alive. The wolf isn't rational, it exists on instinct. I can't remember much after I changed, only pain and running, and then, well. Then you found me.”

Keith listens quietly, doesn't dare interrupt him for fear he'd never find the courage to talk about it again if Keith throws him off track now. Once he's finished, Keith doesn't quite know what to say. He doesn't know how to feel about it, either. He should be upset. Shocked. And he is, sort of, he understands why Shiro's so shaken, but there's that tiny, new, instinct-driven part of him that insists right off the bat that anyone who _hurts Shiro_ deserves whatever happens to them in return. Which is... a lot, and a line of thinking Keith will have to wrap his head around somehow. Another thing to process.

He desperately wishes for his parents. For someone to talk to, someone who isn't the person that stands to become the center of his every thought, his whole world.

And then he notices that Shiro's looking at him again, eyes wide, brows furrowed. He's scared. He's worried about Keith's reaction.

Keith closes his eyes for a moment and inhales, deep enough that he can feel the air fill his lungs in a rush. “I need a moment. An hour. The afternoon, I don't know.” The look Shiro sends him then is poor misery, and Keith realizes how that might have sounded, all the possible meanings of what he said. “I'm not appalled or anything. Actually I need to think about what it means that that's not the case. Just. Give me some time? Let me do some thinking on my own?”

He wipes his hands on his jeans and makes to stand, but Shiro is on his feet first, reaches over to halt him. “It's fine. You have work to do here, and I won't keep you from it. I'll find something to pass the time inside.”

With that, he's trotting towards the cabin, tension obvious in the corded line of his broad shoulders, the way his hands are balled into fists by his side. Keith rakes a hand through his hair, dirt and sweat and all, and goes back to work. It will help him think as well; his mind is clearer when his body has a task to perform while he ruminates, a mechanical distraction that doesn't need much brain space. Weeding fills that bill just fine.

Keith's never been the kind of person to constantly self-reflect, but he'd say he knows himself fairly well. That's a double-edged sword, for someone like him, prone to a rather low opinion of his own thoughts and actions, but it also means that he's able to have a sober look at whether the bond, so far, has changed him into something different. Something that's not much like him anymore. Something that thinks and acts in ways he otherwise wouldn't have considered. And the truth is... not really. Even before Shiro, he would have wished hell and misfortune on anyone who'd dare hurt those he cares for. The difference is that there hadn't been anyone for him to care about, at least no one living. He'd resigned himself to a hermetic life, out here on his own, the only people he'd see with any kind of regularity included the farmers nearby whenever he visits them to trade, and the cashier at the 24-hours-supermarket at the edge of town.

It's not like Shiro's changing him, and neither is the bond. Not really. It's just giving him someone to love, gives him a reason to not want to be alone anymore. And that's scary and new and intense and a thorough shock to his system, but... it's nothing bad. It might even change his life for the better, in ways never considered.

He stays in the garden and finishes his work, doesn't allow himself to rush through the cleanup after. The sun has begun to sink behind the treeline when he returns inside, and he gives Shiro a quick smile before he heads off to have a long, ice-cold shower.

When Keith pads out of the shower, wearing boxers and a t-shirt, the towel he used to dry his hair still loosely slung around his shoulders, Shiro's sitting on the bed with his hands resting on his lap. He turned the TV off and cleared the game console away, and Keith sits down beside him, nudging his shoulder. It makes Shiro look up and smile, although it's a tentative, scared little thing, like a dog that's expecting to be thrown out into the rain.

And no, Keith will have to pull that idea out of his head. “I don't care about whatever you did or didn't do to that mugger.”

Shiro's head snaps up to meet his eyes. He looks... hopeful is the wrong word. “You don't?”

“No,” Keith says, shaking his head. “He was going to hurt you. He _did_ hurt you. Your reaction was instinct, self-defense. The wolf didn't appear out of bloodlust or to hunt, it appeared because he made you fear for your life. You panicked. It's understandable.”

“But I – “ Shiro starts, and Keith dives in and seals their lips together in order to shut him up. That kiss doesn't last either, it can't, but it serves its purpose.

“You're not a monster,” Keith says firmly, after they part. He leans against Shiro, making them touch from knee to shoulder, and with immense relief he notices that Shiro relaxes against him. Maybe he even believes it. Keith repeats the words as he maneuvers them underneath the covers, even though it's still early in the evening. They've both had a long and exhausting day, each in their own way.

 

***

 

Keith wakes to the insistent complaints of fiercely aching muscles and the heat of another body cocooning him from behind. He’s not at all new to the former sensation – he might have overdone just slightly in the garden yesterday – but the latter, that’s new. He burrows a little deeper into the embrace, closes his eyes, tugs at the pillow they’re sharing and makes himself as comfortable as possible. The mid-morning sun streams in through the window, already starting to warm up the room, and Keith wouldn’t mind it if he could stay in this moment forever.

Which, of course, means it won’t last even a second longer.

Behind him, Shiro groans. It’s not a content noise or a mere huff at being woken, but carrying a note of pain, of distress. Keith rolls away from him immediately, worried he might have jarred his wounds, and sits up on the bed. He puts his hand on Shiro’s shoulder and squeezes lightly. Shiro’s eyes are still closed.

“Hey,” Keith says softly. “Hey, are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

Groaning again, Shiro works one eye open to peer up at him. “Nothing you did. Don’t worry.”

That’s a rather sparse answer, much to Keith’s frustration. He draws the blankets out of the way and pushes at Shiro, gently, until he relents and rolls onto his back. The bandages are clean, no new bleeding. The skin underneath doesn’t seem sickly hot either, and a simple bump in the wrong placed would have faded by now. It wouldn’t have Shiro looking at him heavy-lidded, the way he holds himself that it currently costs him all his self-control to keep himself from curling up into a ball, an instinctive reaction to try and minimize the pain. But _what_ pain?

Keith stops checking Shiro over, instead raises his hand to brush his fingers down Shiro’s cheeks. At the touch, Shiro’s eyes fall closed again, and he sighs out a breath that sounds suspiciously like relief.

“What’s wrong?” Keith asks, continuing his caress; he doesn’t understand how, but it seems to help. “Please tell me.”

With visible effort, Shiro sits up. He meets Keith’s gaze, and his expression bounces back and forth between anguish and embarrassment. “I’m, uh.” He grimaces, lifts one hand to scratch the back of his neck. “I think I've gone into heat.”

Keith blinks, confused. “You’ve gone into what now?”

“Some bonded werewolves have heat cycles. Like, breeding season.” That makes, if possible, even less sense than before, and it might show on his face, because the look on Shiro's gains an edge that's somewhere between fond amusement and increasing awkwardness. “Okay. Uhm. Did you ever have a female cat? Or a female dog?” Keith nods. His dad had a hunting dog named Leila when he was little and and one of his foster families had a bunch of cats. He figures that counts. Sort of. “It's like that, except not limited to physical human gender. And we're not calling out for everyone that's available when we're in heat, but for our bond partner. So – “

“Me, in this case,” Keith interrupts. It still doesn't make sense, exactly, but at least he can see where this is going. “What should I do? How can I help?”

Shiro hefts an eyebrow and gives him a sheepish smile. “What my body wants right now is for the bond to be consumed. Sealed, claimed, made final. Mates for life, as nature intended.”

_For life_. Keith hasn't even figured out what he wants to do with himself in the long run. He just wants to hide from the world like he's the wounded animal. He doesn't know where he'll be in five years, ten. He hardly knows where he'll be same time next year. He's a mess, will likely continue to be a mess for a while to come, and it'd be unfair to tie anyone to that.

And of course he's been an open book, again, and of course Shiro misunderstands whatever he's seen reflected on Keith's face. “I can sit this out. You don't have to do anything. We'll decide what we want or don't want to do afterwards, take this slow, see where it takes us. Okay?”

“I...” he starts, but he doesn't know how to continue. It might all come out like he's making excuses, anyway. It might be easier, too, if Shiro thinks he's weirded out by strange werewolf biology rather than unable to look past his own hangups and the issues that spring up at the mere thought of committing himself so completely to another person. He nods, lifts his hand to stroke Shiro's temple, brush his fingers down his neck, and then shifts to settle with his head on Shiro's shoulder. The way Shiro leans into the contact, automatic, on instinct, breaks his heart. “Okay. Taking it slow sounds good.”

 

***

 

During the day, Shiro is subdued, quiet and withdrawn, curled into a corner of the bed. He hardly talks, and Keith stays with him the whole time, into the falling night, although he isn't sure whether that's a comfort or a curse. Shiro still gives these relieved little sighs when they touch, the reaction much like appreciating someone administering salve to an inflamed wound, but Keith can also feel the tug on their connection. The urge, the need. Shiro might be the one with the physical symptoms, but he's not the only one feeling this pull. Keith wants to help, wants to keep and protect, wants to mark and own. It's like nothing he felt before, and it's only held at bay by the knowledge of what it would _mean_. Right now, Shiro could still get out and return to his life without Keith. There's no reason to saddle him with Keith's odd choices, Keith's scars, Keith's tangled issues. Helping him short term, now, would mean damning him to deal with all of that for the rest of their lives.

Riding this out. It's the best option. Keith scoots to the edge of the bed and nods towards the kitchen. “Should I make you something to eat? Are you hungry?”

Shiro's hand shoots out of the tightly curled ball he made of himself to wrap around Keith's wrist, but he releases his grip again immediately. “Not hungry, no. But a glass of cold water or something would be nice.”

_Heat._ Keith didn't expect that to be literal, but on second thought, he should have noticed: Shiro's skin is hot to the touch, almost feverish, and he's sweating a little. Keith debates getting him some ice wrapped in a towel. Decides against it; he would have asked for that if he wanted it, and offering it unprompted might just make him feel more ashamed of the state he's in.

Sending a smile over his shoulder as he goes, Keith climbs off the bed and heads for the kitchen. It's good to be busy, even if it's such a small, mundane task as filling a large glass of water and adding some ice cubes from the freezer.

Back in the bedroom, he finds Shiro sitting on the edge of the mattress, bowled over, hugging his midsection, sees him draw in a breath and straighten up when he, belatedly, notices Keith's return. The latter holds out the glass and sits down next to him.

“I don't know what to do,” Keith confesses. “I want to help you through this, but...”

Shiro shakes his head between gulps, drinking as greedily as if he'd been stuck in the desert for days, then sets it aside on the nightstand. “Too much weird werewolf baggage. I get it.”

He grimaces his way through another wave of pain, another cramp. A thin sheen of sweat on his forehead is glimmering in the pale moonlight. Keith looks away.

“It's not that,” he admits, his gaze trained at a point somewhere to the left of his feet on the ground. He lets the words tumble out, too fast, hurried, articulating the whirlwind of thoughts that's been running through his head on repeat since yesterday.

Shiro listens, his face at first scrunched in confusion, then softening with understanding. He waits a few beats after Keith finishes, like he wants to make sure that's all of it, that Keith really did say his piece. Then he reaches out take Keith's hand, twines their fingers together, and pulls it onto his lap. “Believe it or not, I know a thing or two about feeling alien, feeling different, or feeling like the secrets hidden underneath your skin make you unlovable.” He squeezes Keith's hand. “But tell you what, if you'll have me, wolf and all, I surely won't mind having you despite all the scars on your soul.” Then, the scoffs. “No, that sounded wrong. Keith. I want you, issues and all. Without conditions, and without take-backs.”

For a moment Keith just blinks at him, dumbfounded. He wants to argue, keep pushing all the reasons why Shiro _shouldn't_ , but right then and there he catches Shiro looking at him with so much fondness, so much _love_ , that he realizes it won't change a thing. He's wanted. He's loved. And dammit, but he wants Shiro back so bad that it hurts; so bad he's suddenly breathless with it.

The kiss is unlike any of the ones they shared before, neither careful nor tentative. It's full of mutual need, and Keith only manages to break away, take a breath, after they've toppled backwards onto the bed and started pawing at what little clothes they're still wearing.

“What do I do?” he asks, then inhales, licks his lips. “How does this work?”

“Besides the obvious,” Shiro says, leaning in and bashfully hiding his face against Keith's neck, “you'll also have to claim me. With a bite.” He licks the skin there, and Keith shudders. “Right here.”

What with the arousal thrumming through his veins at the sensation, it takes Keith a moment to parse that bit of information. “Wait, biting? Like. An actual bite? How hard are we talking here, a nip or making a scar, or...?”

Shiro licks at him again, which is really unfair and has Keith swatting at his head. “It's mostly symbolic. The intention behind it is what counts. You don't have to break skin or anything for the claim to take.”

The inquisitive part of Keith's brain wants to ask more questions, take this apart, read the fine print on what he's getting himself into here. But it's getting outvoted by his instincts – new instincts he never knew he had. He's now noticing a new scent in the air, the distinctive smell of sex and male arousal, but sweeter, with a note that's damn near irresistible. He understands that Shiro's the source of it, and the way Shiro's nostrils flare, his eyes falling shut as he inhales, means that Shiro gets a corresponding scent from him.

And whatever it his, however this works, Keith ceases to care for anything but _Shiro_. He climbs into Shiro's lap and kisses him, deep and desperate, then topples them backwards onto the bed. Shiro laughs, a breathless and happy sound, and it's just another thing that makes Keith want him more. More and more and more. Keith _wants_ , now, with a ferocity that should scare him. There's no fear, though. There's certainty and need and protectiveness and the intense urge to wrap himself around Shiro for all hours of the day, shield him from the world, scare away anyone who might do him harm – who might try to take him from Keith.

Shiro arches against him, and Keith manages to break out of his haze enough to realize that he's raising himself up in order to slide out of his underwear. And that's an excellent idea, he decides, bracing himself on one arm to do the same, then shifting so he can pull his shirt off over his head.

They're both naked now, skin to skin, and it's electric, intoxicating, sending shivers of pleasure down Keith's body wherever they touch. He barely retains the presence of mind to break away, reach for his nightstand, and fish out a bottle of lube he keeps for his more, say, elaborate self-care sessions, and a few stray condoms that have been more wishful thinking than concrete preparation when he bought them, on a whim, just in case. Having had to rely on his own right hand for a few years now doesn't mean he's unlearned now to make his partner of choice feel good, though. He squirts some of the liquid into his palm, rubbing it between his hands to make it warm up, and grins when Shiro's legs fall wide in anticipation without needing any other hint.

Settled between Shiro's legs, he gets to work, although he's too impatient, filled with raw need, to tease or draw this out. Shiro moans when Keith sinks the first finger into him, hisses at the second but doesn't protest, but Keith reminds himself to take longer with the third. He turns them this way and that, brushing against Shiro's prostate, mapping him out, learning him, the right angle and the right pressure, cataloging the noises he makes. He watches Shiro's face the whole time, filing away the blush high on his cheeks as well, how he bites his lip when Keith gets the perfect angle, the cadence of his moans.

Almost reluctantly, loathe to stop touching Shiro for even a second, he pulls his fingers out and wrestles the condom into place. Then he crawls back into position, and Shiro's legs fall even wider, letting him in, as he lines up.

He didn't exactly have the wherewithal or the practice to build up stamina in recent years, no one's pleasure to think of but his own, but even if that weren't the case he doesn't think he'd last long. This is different than just sinking into any warm body – this feels like delivering on a promise made when the both of them were born, like giving in to fate. Like they were made for each other, and he's only claiming what was rightfully his all along. He leans forward on autopilot, first for a kiss, then to nip at Shiro's neck, dragging his teeth over sensitive skin, then soothing the sting away with his tongue instead of his teeth. Shiro's writhing underneath him, moaning constantly, by the time Keith _bites_ , not deep enough to pierce the skin, not tasting blood, but enough that it'll show for a day or two, and he bucks against Keith's trusts while Keith holds on, teeth sealed to his neck, fucking into him hard.

Shiro comes with a cry that sounds vaguely like Keith's name, and Keith follows suit, pushed over the edge by the combination of physical sensation and an overwhelming, inexplicable hunger for the man moving against him, meeting the jerks of his hips even though he must be oversensitive so soon after his own orgasm.

Keith pulls out, and he's aware that he should move sometime soon, get up, throw out the condom, get them something to clean up with, but he wants to bask in this feeling a moment longer. Laying here in the afterglow, with Shiro – his boyfriend. His bond mate. The person he committed himself to, until death might part them, for better or worse, after only knowing each other for such a short time.

And yet it all feels so right. It feels perfect. It feels like a home he never even knew to long for.


	3. PROTECT

The nearby farm Keith trades with is run by an aging widow and her adult daughter. They'd already traded with Keith's father when Keith was small, and he remembers the daughter, Aisha, as a gangly teen that took every opportunity to play hide and seek with him. Now she sits down next to him as he waits for her mother to get him his goods, cocks her head, and looks at him like they were in the middle of a conversation and she's spent the last ten minutes patiently waiting for a reply.

Keith squints at her. “What is it? What did I miss?”

“You look... happy,” Aisha says with a fond smile. “I was kinda hoping you'd let me in on the reason for that.”

“Oh,” says Keith, blinking at her owlishly. His first instinct is to be nervous, feel caught, but there's a warmth spreading through him that means Shiro caught his mood and is trying to soothe it from afar.

That's what their bond is becoming: less desperation and need, more looking out for each other, being there, being present whenever it seems necessary. Keith takes a breath. Shiro is right. She's just trying to be nice. No reason for nerves.

He smiles back. “I met someone.”

Aisha claps her hands together, gleeful on his behalf. “Keith, that's wonderful!”

He nods, feels heated embarrassment creep up the back of his neck. Someone sharing his joy; that's not a reaction he gets all that often. Or hadn't, until he met Shiro, albeit that's very much not the same. “Thank you.”

She takes his hand in silent understanding, squeezes it once, and they spend the next couple minutes in comfortable silence, staring at the goats grazing on a paddock by the farmhouse, waiting until Aisha's mother reemerges with a basket full of cheese, fruit, meat and baked goods. He thanks them both, gets another conspiratorial wink from Aisha, and then he's on his way back home. The way back leads past the farm's fields and through the edge of the forest, and Keith takes his time. He knows Shiro is home, safe and content, still in bed and waiting for his return. That's where they spent most of the past week, having themselves their own kind of honeymoon, sex and cuddling and late mornings, but by now Shiro's heat is on its way out and the bond has mostly settled. Keith enjoys it more than he ever thought possible. The knowledge that Shiro's with him, that Shiro is _his_ , sits in the back of his mind, reassuring and constant, veiling him from the doubt and self-flagellation that might otherwise have started to consume him at this point.

His heart beats a little faster once the cabin comes into view, though that has as much to do with the fact that Shiro's on the porch, sunbathing with his shirt off, as it does with the bond. He barely manages to sneak the basket into the doorway of the cabin, at least out of the sun, before Shiro catches him by the waist and draws him into a kiss.

They move together like it's dictated by magnetism, like it's only natural they'd snap towards each other to close the distance once they're close enough to touch, and it takes some effort break away. But he's got goods in that basket that need to go in the fridge or in the freezer, and there's no point in letting food spoil just because they couldn't resist making out.

He pushes Shiro away, firmly, with a hand on his stomach. “We have time for that later.”

Shiro pouts. It looks ridiculous on him, which might be half the reason he does it. “Killjoy.”

“You'll thank me later when we don't starve,” Keith quips back, bends to pick the basket up and carry it inside, but Shiro's faster, picks it up for him. “And put on a shirt. One of us is only human and can't spend all his free time fucking.”

“Fine with me, I'm still sore from last night. And this morning. And in the shower, after that,” Shiro says over his shoulder as he walks through the door ahead of him. “By the way, we're almost out of toilet paper. Cereal's empty too.”

Keith swats after him, aimed at the firm muscle at the dip of his spine. “Well, if the cereal's empty, the situation is dire.”

Shiro waits until they're inside to reply, just as he's putting the basket on the kitchen counter. He leans back against said counter, watches Keith starting to put things away, and audibly steps from foot to foot before he speaks. “I want to go with you when you do the grocery run.”

“Oh,” Keith says, and finishes stuffing a piece of meat into the freezer, stalling for time, looking for the right reply, before he turns around to look at Shiro. “Are you sure?”

Mouth thin, Shiro lowers his head, braces himself against the counter with both arms. “I have to go back sooner or later. There's some things I want to get out of my apartment before the landlord clears all that shit out because the rent checks have stopped coming, too, so I thought, maybe we could swing by there, too?”

The assumption that they'll be living together from now on, out here, makes Keith want to vibrate out of his skin with happiness, but it wars with the knowledge of how conflicted Shiro has been about going back to town. Afraid, too, like part of him expects his face to be plastered all over town in the form of old-fashioned mugshots, or for a firing squad to great him as soon as he hits the town limit.

“I'll make a list,” Keith says. He straightens up and steps between Shiro's legs, wrapping both arms around his middle and resting his face on his chest. “And we'll go in tonight.”

 

***

 

Keith stands back while Shiro sorts through his things, packs clothes and personal belongings into a sports duffle bag with an expression that's carefully neutral even though Keith _knows_ this affects him. He can feel it, an echo of it reverberating through their connection. But he stands back, allows him the pretense, and distracts himself by exploring the apartment on his own. Not like there's much to explore; it's a one room with kitchenette, bathroom, and walk-in closet, all at maybe half the size of Keith's cabin. That comes as a surprise – he expected Shiro's life in town to have been... bigger, somehow. Better. Nicer. Worthy of him, in a way. This, however, looks like a hideout. It looks like a life half-lived, ready to be given up on the fly. The only things Shiro assigns any value to, material or sentimental, seem to quite literally fit in a bag.

He wanders into the kitchenette, checks the fridge and grimaces when all he finds are juice boxes, a carton of milk, and the remainders of several old takeout meals. He opens cupboards at random on the hunt for anything worth taking along.

“Being practical, or being noisy?” Shiro says from behind him, and Keith whirls around, feeling caught.

He shakes his head, and relaxes at Shiro's teasing smile. “I wasn't snooping. Just thought it'd be a shame to leave something behind that we could use in the cabin.”

“Like what?” Shiro asks. He snorts, nodding towards the cupboard Keith's been filing through. “The popcorn machine I won at a school rally when I was ten?”

Keith doesn't point out that it looks used, and that Shiro obviously considered it useful enough to drag it along with him to this day. Instead, he lets his eyes rove over the rest of the cupboard's contents, eventually settling on a waffle maker. “That thing,” he announces. “We'll take that. I always wanted to have one.”

It's not even a lie; Keith did love them when he was little. His dad took him out for waffles every first Sunday of the month, when they went to town for groceries, and it never felt right going out for them alone. But making his own with Shiro, maybe that won't feel so wrong.

Shiro's brows knit together in a frown, but he shrugs his shoulders and holds his hand out for the waffle maker, ready to stove it away in the bag sitting at his feet. “Alright. I'm almost done. Just getting some stuff from the bathroom, then we can leave.”

“Okay,” says Keith, and closes the cupboard, sitting down on a bar stool at the counter. He watches Shiro march past him to the bathroom, and his eyes fall to the open bag on the floor. Most of its contents are, indeed, clothes, but his eyes are drawn to an old book. No, not a book; it's too big for that. A photo album.

He's still staring at it when Shiro returns, earlier than expected, carrying a toiletry kit and two oversized towels. Shiro follows his line of sight, then meets his eyes.

“It goes back seven generations,” he says, his eyes taking on a faraway look, almost as if trying to summon the past documented between its pages. “My grandma gave it to me when she died. Our... our pack. My parents, aunts and uncles I never met. My grandfather. Our ancestors in Japan.”

“Can we – “ Keith swallows, unsure whether the request will overstep boundaries, end up being too personal. Then he nearly snorts out a laugh; they're bonded. They can feel each other's emotions. They kind of threw _personal_ out of the window. Then again, that doesn't mean he considers himself entitled to all of Shiro's secrets. “Can we look at it together, at home?”

But he needn't have worried. Shiro smiles softly and nods. “Yes. I'd like that.”

He stuffs the towels and the toiletry kit into the bag and zips it closed, gestures towards the door, and glances Keith's way. Keith hops off the bar stool. He'll make sure the photo album will receive a special place in the cabin, might even dig out a few of the old photos he kept of his parents and put them up alongside it. That's _their_ pack, now. Both their families, linked through their bond.

 

***

 

They work through Keith's shopping list in the store, deviating for expensive sweets or other luxuries here and there that Shiro insists to pay for, joking about how he should pull his weight as long as the bank doesn't close his account. Keith doesn't argue; he picks a cooking magazine with pretentious waffle recipes from the shelf and sets out to gather the ingredients for two or three of them, sticking his tongue out when Shiro laughs.

The night is warm and clear, stars and a half-moon visible in the sky, and they leave sharing a bag of wine gums between them. Keith lets out a breath, a weight falling off him that he hadn't realized he was shouldering before: the worry that Shiro might change his mind, once they left their bubble. That he'd set foot into town, into his apartment, into the store and its riches, and decide he doesn't want to leave all that behind. Keith might not even have blamed him – it's a big step, committing to the kind of life he leads.

And Shiro's making it. He doesn't appear to be wistful about it either. He's committed, too, and Keith's heart soars a little more at the thought.

At the edge of the parking lot, they walk past a couple of men roughly Shiro's age, bumping each other as they sway and talk a little too loudly, and Shiro stiffens. Keith hefts his backpack higher onto his shoulder and reaches for Shiro's hand, squeezes it, searches for his gaze. But Shiro's eyes are pinned to the two stranger's faces in the dark, radiating apprehension through their bond, and Keith automatically tenses as well.

“What's wrong,” he whispers, the words carried through their connections as much as through actual sound. “Who are they?”

Shiro exhales, finally meeting Keith's eyes. “Former friends. People who will recognize me.”

The robbery. Shiro wolfing out against his attacker. His subsequent disappearance. Keith speeds up their pace, drags Shiro along with him, pressing his hand harder, maybe even hard enough to hurt. But he doesn't feel pain. He doesn't feel pain. The only thing that matters is getting his mate to safety, and out here, in the parking lot, staring their potential doom in the face, isn't _safe_.

“C'mon,” he hisses. “C'mon, let's go home. It's dark. They're drunk. Maybe they didn't even see us.”

Shiro sends another anxious glance over his shoulder, but he follows Keith back into the woods.

 

***

 

Neither of them talk much on their way home. Keith wants to, wants to tell Shiro it’s alright, they didn’t recognize him, they were super sauced and it’s all going to be just fine, but he’s never been that much of a fan of comforting white lies when it came to himself. So he stays silent and drags Shiro onto the bed as soon as they’re home, and holds him there, cuddled up together, and hopes the message is the same.

The sun is nearly up by the time the commotion outside starts. It makes Keith's stomach churn, panic slithering up his spine, but Shiro mostly looks resigned. This is probably a bad time for Keith to do the math on how old he was when the town last set out to fix its werewolf problem, which is why Keith doesn't think about. It takes some effort to try and push it out of his mind. And it doesn't last long.

Keith himself was a toddler when the mob last formed, when his mother left. Memories from that early on are rare, he knows that, and he's likely imagining it, but the bitter, acidic fear that settles in his stomach seems familiar. He sees himself, tiny and helpless, curled in a corner behind the kitchen counter. He sees his mother, murder glowing in her eyes, trembling with instinctive rage over the threat to her family. He sees his father, standing in the middle of the cabin, eyes flickering back and forth between his small son, hiding in terror, and his wife, about ready to tear asunder anyone who so much as thinks about hurting them.

He doesn't see how it ends. The hot tears that spill before he knows they were coming might be answer enough.

Beside him, Shiro sits up. He strokes a hand over Keith's hair, swipes the tears away with his thumb. “Don't worry,” he says. “I won't let anyone hurt you.”

Keith is on his feet in an instant. “No!”

That's how it all went south last time, he's pretty sure. Wolves are strong, but one wolf can only tear its way through so many humans with torches and pitchforks, or flashlights and handguns, or whatever else is waiting for them in the clearing.

Shiro reaches out, grabbing for his wrist to hold him back, but Keith evades him and turns around, eyes wide. He can feel that Shiro is about to shift, can feel something non-human seep into their bond and intensifying the need to keep safe and protect. It echoes through him as well, and he doesn't have the option to get down on all fours and bite and growl at their attackers.

He doesn't wheel around to see Shiro turn. The pain that burns through his veins as it racks through Shiro's body is enough; he doesn't need the accompanying visuals. Keith’s faster, though, not held back by his limbs reshaping themselves into a different form. He's across the cabin while Shiro's still wincing in pain, and the wave of worry and fear that sloshes through him as he pulls the door open is not his own.

The crowd is smaller than he expected, a handful of men and women, one of them indeed holding an actual torch. Just as well, he assumes. These days even the people around here have mostly banned the idea of werewolves into the realm of stories and legends. The amount of angry villagers ready to avenge the passing of a good-for-nothing mugger might also be limited.

Laughter bubbles up Keith's throat at the anticlimactic sight in front of him, but he pushes it back down. They're still dangerous. They could still carry more weapons, put them both down with two well-aimed bullets.

“He's no danger to anyone,” Keith says, loud and firm. “You must have heard it was a mugging. It was self-defense. He never hurt anyone before. And from now on he'll stay with me, right here. All we want is to live in peace.”

Murmuring swells among the townsfolk, one or two of them glancing back and forth between Keith and their companions. Behind himself, Keith hears a low growl, but Shiro doesn't approach, keeps himself well-hidden on the other side of the door. Ready to pounce, yet still human enough to hang back and wait, let Keith's attempt to handle the situation play out.

A man steps forward from the group, and Keith recognizes him as one of the two that they saw last night. “He can't come back to town.”

“He doesn't want to,” Keith replies, sending a glance back to Shiro, still growling, teeth bared. “Just today, we gathered his things. We'll only ever step into town again for groceries or the like, I promise. And I'll always be with him.”

The murmurs swell back up, and Keith has to count the seconds out in his head so he remembers how to breathe.

No one accepts the offer with so many words. No one gives verbal confirmation that a deal was struck. The little group simply scatters and leaves, slinking back home in the red morning light and carrying the kind of defeat like they set out to hunt a Yeti and all they found were a bunch of ill-behaved, megalomaniac squirrels. No one mentioned the word _werewolf_. They received no actual proof of their suspicions. They merely banned a miscreant from their happy little town.

As soon as they're out of sight, Shiro pads through the open door, furry head pushing against Keith's hand, licking and nosing, and Keith hopes it means approval. He glances down at Shiro and pets the white lock of hair that marks him in wolf form as it does in human form, runs his fingers through it, and smiles when Shiro grunts his content. Shiro sidles up closer, rubbing against Keith's leg, and finally curls up by his feet.

This might not be a permanent solution. He can't be sure they'll be safe now. Or that the townspeople won't decide – for some reason, at some point – that a werewolf roaming the woods, real or not, is too big a risk and needs to be dealt with for good.

There’s a bigger town on the other end of the forest. They can do their necessary shopping there, even though it's a much longer march. Maybe they’ll have to move altogether, if something like this happens again.

Keith looks back at the cabin and finds the idea of leaving less scary than it would have been before Shiro. Home means something different now. They'll find their place in the world, and they'll find it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Posting this a day early, because I'll be traveling tomorrow. I hope you enjoyed the ride. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/spacenerdz).


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